ADA

[Terrance]

Alisa Rosenbaum, a 20-year-old refugee from St. Petersburg is off to the
Portnoy's of Chicago in America. "America is mine," says Ayn, "Fire the
Remington from the Finnish lines and you may call me Randy." No Towers
terrorized, no black aping empires of terrible beauty, no hundred story
American alabasters have been erected on the fire charred pastures of
that little lady's cow who started the big race won by Abraham Milton
and Uncle Remus to scrape the skies. At the Portnoy's she smokes and
with a wave of her hand launches a thousand nights and one horney boy,
Karen.   Overwhelmed by her smoking sensuality, the Portnoy boy,
silently slinking away  through the cow fields to the  WC,  locks the
door, turns on the tap, listens down the drain to the verbally blurred
soliloquy of the water's flow briefly, undresses and calls forth an
image of Alisa.  Eyes that needed no haze of cigarette smoke in the
mirror sexy and fathomless, Chicago was, when she arrived, a city of
smoke, its streets the courtyards of limbo, its bodies like wraiths.
Smoke was in her voice, in her movements; making her all the more
substantial, more there as if words, glances, small lewdness could only
become baffled and brought to rest like smoke in her long red hair;
remain there useless till she released them, accidentally, and
unknowingly, with a toss of her hand. Alisa's image dances in the smoky
hand-cupped flame, is blown out in the  WC with savage zeal; after
which, drained for a while, with shaky loins and weak calves Horney
Karen Portnoy complains of nausea and hunger and lights a cigarette.